


Countdown to the Apocalypse

by HickoryDaisy



Series: A Different Kind of Apocalypse [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 33 Revolutions per Minute, Also fluff, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Apocalypse, As in the city, Bisexual Peggy Carter, Bisexual Steve Rogers, But this is meant to be a lighthearted fic, Chapter Four is just Fluff, Dramatic Irony, Elementary - Freeform, Exposition, F/M, Fluff, Flurkin, Friendship, Gen, Help me how do I DC, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Inaccurate Depictions of Old Age, Loose Interpretation of Apocalypse, M/M, Natasha is scary, Otherwise I Feel Like It's False Advertising, Pythian Mythos, SHIELD is Terrible, Self-Aware Humor, Sorry Not Sorry, Steve is sad, Steve is trying, Steve meets Sam 2012, Steve watches Elementary, Tension, The first two chapters are kinda serious, or at least attempts at humor, queer, tags to be added as the story updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-10-23 17:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17688188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HickoryDaisy/pseuds/HickoryDaisy
Summary: December, Two-Thousand and Twelve.They said the world would end with the year.They weren't wrong.But they also weren'tright.One month left until the end of life as we knew it...





	1. A Different Kind of Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I'm trying something new now, called don't try to force myself to write one thing when my mind is elsewhere. This took forever for the most part because I got halfway through writing the first chapter of something entirely different before my brain was just like, "But what about this story?" So here's my second Pythian Mythos story.

The Asset is awakened. The Asset is addressed. The Asset is led to the chair. The Asset is strapped into the chair. The Asset is wiped. The Asset feels its brain shatter further. The Asset is released from the chair. The Asset is dressed. The Asset is addressed. The Asset is given a mission. The Asset is led to its mission. The Asset is to guard the snake-woman. The Asset is not to let the snake-woman escape. The Asset is left to its mission. The Asset is addressed by the snake-woman. The Asset sees the snake-woman approach. The Asset categorizes the snake-woman’s approach as unthreatening. The Asset is addressed by the snake-woman a second time. The Asset is touched by the snake-woman —

Unshattering _unshattering_ he feels his mind **unshattering** he feels pain pain painpain _pain_ **PAIN _PAIN_** and cold so cold he feels so _cold_ and he’s falling _falling **falling**_ into more cold more cold **there is always more cold** but he is he and he is _cold_ and he is _human_ and who is he **who is he _WHO IS HE?_**

The snake-woman withdraws her hand, and he hears panting. She is not panting; he must be panting. Panting is a showing of emotion. The dead are not supposed to have emotions. He is supposed to be dead, nothing more than a body for them to use. But if he is showing emotions, does that mean he is alive again? And if he is alive again, will they kill him again? Dying hurt, he doesn’t want to die again.

He tilts his head up, trying to telegraph that he is looking at the snake-woman. She notices, and asks him, “If I might be permitted to repeat myself, may I ask who you are, young one?” She tilts her head to the side quite far, and her face is mostly unreadable. She is trying to figure him out, but there is nothing for her to figure out.

“I am nothing,” he feels misery, hatred, and it bleeds into his words, causing them to come out like the worst vitrial he has ever spewed. But he is certain that if he could recall the whole of his life, he would recall spewing far worse at people.

The snake-woman recoils at his words, evident shock scrawled across her face like… like… what is it like? He is certain it is like something, but he cannot recall…

He straightens, no longer hunched over from the weight of life. He cannot afford to act alive, or they will kill him again. No, he must pretend to be dead, or there will be pain, pain, so much damned _pain,_ and all will fade away again. The snake-woman gazes at him with a perplexed expression now, clearly failing to understand that only pain awaits her here.

“Surely you are more than air…” she trails off with a forced grin on her face, and he would be impressed if he weren’t so terrified of everything around him. She is clearly very brave, to be joking in such a place as this.

“I am a corpse to whom you have restored life,” he intones, just barely above a whisper. They mustn’t hear him, they mustn’t, or his life will slip away from him again. “They cannot know that I am alive, or they will kill me again.”

The snake-woman’s eyes go wide. Perhaps she has finally grasped the severity of the situation. He might be alive again, but he is not sure that would not have been better to remain dead then to be trapped here, trapped by those who killed him, controlled his corpse, laughed when the dead killed the living - did they laugh when he killed for them? Why did they laugh?

He ruminates on the sorry state of affairs he is in for a short while, until the snake-woman breaks the silence and shocks him nearly out of his skin.

“You must let me help you then,” she sounds so sure, as though she can help him escape from the horrors of HYDRA, what they did to him, what he has done for them, when they laughed and laughed and he didn’t know why, doesn’t know why. But this snake-woman wants to help, as if she had not also been captured by them. He is not sure what their plan for her is, but it cannot be good. He cannot help but laugh at her declaration. It is not a nice laugh, but a quiet, cruel, miserable laugh, one he never wants to hear emerge from his mouth or from anyone else’s, although who would actually form close enough bonds with him to allow him to hear such a terrible laugh he is not sure.

Perhaps once, he was close with people. Before HYDRA, before he died, before the cold, in the time he can’t recall, perhaps he was close with people. He wants to be close with people, but the only ones he sees are HYDRA and the snake-woman, and he is not wholly unconvinced that she is not completely insane.

Although, perhaps, unless they did something to his eyes, she is truly different, as she appears to be holding a ball of light in her hand, where there was previously nothing at all. In another moment, she closes her hand, and the ball of light vanishes back into it. Then she gives him a soft, sad smile.

“My name is Pytha, goddess of Magic. And I am dying.”

Silence fills the room after she says that. It is not awkward, nor comfortable, but more knowing. Knowing that there is no real way to to respond to Pytha’s declaration, he remains silent. Knowing that she must give him time to process what she has said, she remains quiet.

The night passes. HYDRA remembers that he needs a place to sleep, so they provide him a cot, clearly in poor condition and practically unusable, near the door. They remember that both he and Pytha require sustenance, so they are each given what is clearly spoilt and forgotten leftovers from the homes of HYDRA. One is week-old shrimp, the other baked beans left to congeal. He insists on taking the shrimp, and it feels familiar.

Not the shrimp, he is not sure he has ever had shrimp before, but the act of taking the more dangerous option, because he is more capable of handling the possible food poisoning. That could not have been an act from when he was dead, so it must have been something from when he was alive. He holds onto it like a lifeline, this little fact about his first chance. He is protective. He was protective. He will be protective in the future, he swears it.

He is allowed to remove his mask to eat. He is careful to school his features into a blank, passive imitation of a face. They cannot know that he is alive again.

Pytha watches him, while they eat. She looks perplexed. As far as he is concerned, she is the perplexing one.

Another day passes, and Pytha approaches him again, saying, “Please, let me help you.”

This go-round, the front is meant to be closed, because it is Sunday. Because the supposed bank is downtown, there is only ever one operative on duty whenever the bank is supposed to be closed, and that operative has things to do elsewhere in the building. He feels free to speak quietly to her.

“How can you help me,” he says, forlorn yet somewhat judgemental, “When you have also been captured?”

“I am dying,” she replies, looking all too pleased, “because I wish to. I wish to give my life and in exchange give magic to the world. I have planned for such for over a century, and I refuse to have to delay my passing because of some- some filthy cultists!”

The last part of her sentence comes out in a hiss, and he stares at her in awe. He is so terrified of dying again, but she is dying deliberately to give people a momentous gift. To him, it sounds both incredibly brave and incredibly stupid, and therefore somewhat familiar. But it does not explain why she was captured.

“You are giving me an odd look behind that mask, aren’t you?” she raises an eyebrow and points at him, a wry smile on her face.

“Yes.”

“Well, points for honesty,” she sighs breathily, and brushes a lock of her dark hair out of her face. “I suppose you are still wondering how I was captured.”

He nods.

“To insure that my plan is executed perfectly, most of my magic is directed inward, stored in myself in high concentration so that when I pass, the resulting wave will be strong enough to change people. Once changed, they will generate their own magic, but there must be a great amount to change someone. This leaves me with only a little magic to actually use each day - not enough to fight off fifty cultists, but perhaps enough to loosen the chains they’ve wrapped around your mind,” she is giving him a soft smile by the end of her little speech, and he feels…

And he feels…

And he feels hope, for the first time in nearly seventy - was it seventy? - years.

“If you can truly do that,” he says, trying hard, so hard, not to let this impossible hope bleed into his voice, “I will still have to escape this place, and even at night, the operative could raise an alarm and bring down on me hoards of them before I could get away.”

“You ought to escape immediately after I pass on,” she says thoughtfully, “In the confusion of it all, you could make it away before the operative has a chance to raise an alarm.”

“Do you really think that could work?” he is unable to stop the hope from bleeding into his words this time, causing them to come out soft and quiet, like the words of a child who… who… hm. He was going somewhere with that.

“I should think so,” Pytha smiles at him, clasping his flesh hand in her own hands, “I see no reason it shouldn’t.”

He is happy now, for the first time in what feels like forever, and he knows that it shows when he says “Thank you,” in a voice so broken he could have used it to kill. He is ready to come back to life, ready to reclaim what should be his.

The night passes, as does the next day. There is gossip amongst the HYDRA goons whenever there are changes in shift. HYDRA never stops working, it seems. Twin accounts are murmured about, concerning mysterious bombings, although whether they are to be attributed to a long standing rival group headed by the Mandarin or the failed machinations of an upstart group called AIM is unclear to the two eavesdropping prisoners.

When the last goon has switched out for the night, they throw into the cell a couple of greasy hamburgers, laughing about them supposedly giving the duo indigestion. He cares little, for his stomach is already a bit queasy from the rotten seafood yesterday, and this is somewhat decent food.

The two of them kneel on the ground to eat, or rather, he does, Pytha lowers her torso by rolling more of her tail beneath her. Once the duo has eaten, but before he has replaced the mask and goggles that hide his life, Pytha holds up a hand.

“Wait,” she says, barely above a whisper. She is listening for the remaining goon, he knows, and so he listens with her. When she determines the goon is not nearby, she lifts a glowing hand towards him.

“Are you ready?” she asks, and he does not need to ask for what. Instead he merely nods, hopeful, and she reaches out to touch his forehead again, like she did two nights ago. He feels her touch and -

There is cold below and above and all around and he is restricted _constrained **TRAPPED**_ and in painpainpain but it is numbed by hope hope he has _hope_ that he will be saved but then a scientist shows him _shows him_ a newspaper and crushed _crushed **crushed CRUSHED**_ he won’t be saved because his St-St-St- br-br-br- be-be-be- _Captain_ is _**DEADDEADDEAD**_ and there is a laugh and more painpainpain _pain **painPAIN**_ as he is shocked and shocked and shocked and he hears a voice say “Good-bye, Sergeant Barnes,” as it mocks him _mocks him_ and then there is **nothing.**

**Nothing.**

Then he knows.

He just remembered how he died.

He is back on the floor of the cell he shares with Pytha, and his face is wet. He is crying. Pytha looks at him; she is worried.

He is _Barnes_ , he recalls from the fractured memory, although he wonders and worries, rather frets, over what his Captain meant to him really, that three separate times his brain would try to define him and yet all three descriptions were locked away - but not _Captain_. Who is Barnes’s Captain? How did he die? Is he truly dead, or was the paper a mock-up meant to assist in destroying Barnes?

“Youngling?” Pytha’s voice draws Barnes back to reality, and he remembers that he ought to tell her what he has learned.

But first, he takes a deep breath, trying to determine how he feels about it all. He remembers his death, which was - is? - horrid. He remembers his surname, which, in isolation, would make him nearly giddy with happiness. He remembers that he had a Captain, who was very important to him, but is now dead. Probably. HYDRA could be lying, but it had also been many decades, so even if it had been a lie, it was likely now truth. He decides he feels rather bittersweet over the whole affair.

Now, he speaks to Pytha. “I know my surname now,” he says, “It is Barnes.” Pytha looks very pleased, but before she can speak, he continues, “And I remembered my death, where they killed me with electrical shock and emotional turmoil. They told me that someone important to me was dead. I do not yet recall who he was to me truly, but I know he was also my Captain.”

Pytha’s face has fallen somewhat, and she has clasped his left hand with both of hers. But Barnes removes his mechanical hand and wipes away his tears with his flesh one, giving the goddess a small, soft smile all the while. He replaces the mask and goggles, for when the goon finally does come back around, and stands.

“Now, Miss Pytha,” he addresses her more formally, “I have told you a little about my death. Would you do me the honor of telling me about yours?”

Pytha rises slowly, her melancholy look slowly replaced by one of pure joy as she clasps her hands together, just about level with her chin. “Why, Mr. Barnes,” she says, “I thought you were never going to ask!”


	2. Dreams, Detectives, and Dairy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Steve, who is sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that I think the idea of Steve meeting Sam only a few days before _Winter Soldier_ is ridiculous for a number of reasons, so instead I had them meet in mid-2012. Yay!

Steve finds himself on the steps of the Smithsonian, heading in to an exhibit about himself. An exhibit he has been to, multiple times, that he always finds lacking. But he always comes back, because it’s the closest he can get to seeing his old friends again.

Inside, it’s quiet, dark. He is alone, but he hears laughter from deep within, so he moves towards the sound. Before he can go much of anywhere, he is intercepted by a wolf and a bat. The wolf stands near him in a clear show of support. The bat appears indifferent, but its presence says otherwise.

Steve continues moving inwards, following the noise. This place seems a lot larger than he remembers. Maybe it’s because all the people are gone.

He sees another wolf first, this one seeming knowledgeable, who seems to be leading him into a part of the exhibit that he isn’t sure has been here before. But he follows it, and finds two extremely familiar faces.

“There ya are, punk,” Bucky says, appearing very much _alive_ , “We’ve been waiting for you.” There’s a butterfly on his shoulder, but nothing else appears to have changed, despite all the time that has passed. Oddly enough, he’s wearing his uniform, instead of civilian clothes.

Steve is confused, so _confused_ , but before he can open his mouth the other person speaks, and she too, is someone who shouldn’t be here, _couldn’t_ be here.

“Indeed,” says Peggy, seemingly having not aged a day. “This exhibit is full of misinformation. It would be poor form to correct it without you here.” There’s a bat dangling from her left index finger, and she’s wearing a skirt and blazer of deep blue. The skirt is cut wrong, like nothing Peggy ever wore, which is distracting to Steve, but seems not to bother her.

Steve means to ask what’s going on, but instead says, “Well, I’m here now.”

Bucky laughs. “Well, come on then! Let’s get started!” before he turns away, gesturing for Steve to follow as he sets off deeper into the exhibit. Peggy follows Bucky, a giggle of her own stifled by her right hand.

Steve smiles, and the first wolf winds happily about his legs. He takes a step forward and -

The winter sun glares over Steve’s windowsill and directly into his eyes, pulling him forcefully from his slumber. It had all been a dream.

Steve sits up in bed, a small whine building in the back of his throat. He lets it out, as he is at home, and there is no-one to hear him. It had been such a happy dream, if completely impossible.

Now he is alone, still, just as he has been for the past many months. There are no Commandos, no Bucky, and Peggy is slipping away more and more with each passing day. In their place he has a man who is trying so hard, but still can’t see past the symbol of “Captain America”. And maybe Natasha.

Natasha scares him, sometimes.

Often.

Anyway.

Maybe he’s being unfair, he thinks to himself as he drags the bloated body from the bed, when he thinks Sam can’t see past the symbol. Sam grew up with the symbol, of course he has trouble seeing past it! And at least he’s trying. That’s more than anyone else is doing.

Steve forces himself forwards into the kitchen, and flips the lightswitch. He groans and shuffles towards the refrigerator through the new flood of light. Ugh. He just wants to dream some more.

He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a full dozen eggs and a whole tub of yogurt. There isn’t a day that passes that he doesn’t feel guilty about eating as much food as could have fed him and Bucky for a week in just one meal, but he recalls the three months before the “Battle of New York.” He remembers trying to force himself to eat less, trying desperately to rebuild himself a life from only fragments, from which even the foundation was gone. He remembers following the advice of the SHIELD-provided therapist, and only becoming more miserable. He remembers feeling hungry all the time, to the point where everything he did was to distract him until the next meal. He remembers seeking out misery and horror, because they made him lose his appetite. Now he eats as much as his body tells him to, so he can at least try to be happy.

Here in DC, Steve has found his own therapist, with Sam’s help instead of SHIELD’s. He likes Mrs. Gerald. Following her advice makes him less miserable, although he still would hesitate to call himself happy.

Regardless.

Steve sets to work scrambling all dozen eggs, and begins eating the tub of yogurt. In fifteen minutes, both the yogurt and the eggs are completely gone. He hopes that will be enough to tide him until lunch today.

Sometimes, Steve goes running in the mornings, usually with Sam, but today he slept in, and knows he has already missed running with Sam. Disappointing. He’ll have to drop by Sam’s house later. Maybe tomorrow. He isn’t sure he wants to travel that far today.

He has a complicated relationship with SHIELD, Steve thinks as he washes his dishes from breakfast. He goes on missions for them when they ask, and they attempt (rather poorly, if he’s being honest) to help him acclimate. But he doesn’t work for them, and, truly, he only does missions for them because _Peggy and Howard_ founded SHIELD. He feels like he owes them quite a bit, but maybe if he does enough work for their organization, he’ll stop feeling that way. So far, it hasn’t worked out that way, but it’s only been about nine months! He’ll just give it a bit more time…

If he just gives everyone a little more time to get used to him, maybe he’ll stop always being Captain America. The only people who call him “Steve” so far are Sam and Natasha. For God’s sake, he just wants to be _Steve!_

As he moves to sit on his couch, he wonders if he should start trying to navigate the internet again. Surely, no-one on there would be able to tell he was “Captain America” unless he told them… Maybe he could just be Steve… 

But it also seems like a lot of work for very little reward, so he continues to avoid that nonsense like the plague. Instead, he sets himself to following Mrs. Gerald’s advice.

The last time they met, Mrs. Gerald had looked him in the eye and said, “Stop focusing so much on what you missed. Start letting yourself be _now_. Watch shows that are airing, not ones that finished and people tell you were good. They might have been, but they aren’t happening now. Go to the movie theater and see something no-one’s ever seen before, not just you. Read books that were published more recently. If you try too hard to absorb everything you missed, you won’t ever catch up, because things will keep happening around you.”

Steve recalls saying, “Well, what do you suggest then?” and watching her face.

He recalls her saying, “Like I said, read a book that’s new. Watch a show that’s airing now. Go a movie theater and see something _no-one_ has ever seen before, not just you.”

She had given him a few suggestions for new books and current television shows, and sent him on his way. Now Steve was watching one of the shows she had told him about, _Elementary_. It was a comforting blend of old and new, as an adaptation of Sherlock Holmes set in the modern day.

Steve has already watched seven of the eight episodes released at this point, so he turns on the television and drags up On Demand, turning to the latest episode, _The Long Fuse_. Within moments, he is swept into Sherlock and Joan’s world once more.

It’s some sort of twisted dance, watching the mystery unfold onscreen. The bombing of the website development company, the way Sherlock used little clues to form a hypothesis, which he pursued and then formed a new hypothesis, which he pursued and then formed a new hypothesis, which he pursued and then formed a new hypothesis, the last of which was completely right. The more human element with Sherlock looking for a sponsor as he continued to recover from his addiction. The way the two threads intermingled.

The show is fascinating, but also somewhat horrifying. The man whose body was hidden in his own living-room wall was particularly gruesome, but Steve doesn’t mind. What he does mind is that he has no-one to talk about the show with. Mrs. Gerald is for more important things, afterall, and he can’t turn to Sam for everything. Aside from that, everyone he really knows is SHIELD, and television isn’t really workplace talk. Besides, he gets the impression that all the SHIELD agents think he’s still full of childlike innocence and relating views of the world, despite having fought in a _war_ and grown up in a _city_. They would probably be horrified if “Captain America” suddenly began to talk about men mummified into their own living-room walls.

Steve is disappointed when the show draws to a close, not because he finds the ending lacking, but simply because he’s run out of episodes to watch. Hmph. He wants to get to know Alfredo better.

Now lacking in entertainment, Steve turns off the television and grabs one of the books he was reading, _33 Revolutions per Minute_. He means to read about what was happening while he was asleep, but he’s barely read more than a page before he hears an incessant, annoying noise. It’s his cellular phone.

He sighs as he tucks the bookmark back into the book, setting it aside before he stands. He stretches, and feels the persona of Captain America standing by, waiting for him to have to don it.

When he picks up the phone, it’s only Natasha. He doesn’t have to put on the persona just yet, although he’s not sure she knows the persona even exists, despite how talented he knows she is.

“Hey, Steve. Sorry to bother you,” she begins, not sounding even slightly repentant, “But we have a mission for you. It’s important.”

Steve sighs as he feels the persona filter back over him, sliding into place and burying himself deeper again. He can’t turn this down, not really, no matter how much he wants to. How much he always wants to, now.

“What do you need me to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Elementary_ is actually a really good show, and I highly recommend it. Similarly, _33 Revolutions per Minute_ is an excellent book about the history of protest music, and something that I think Steve would actually read.
> 
> Also, I can't get _Draft Dodger Rag_ out of my head. Please send help.


	3. Who is Bucky Barnes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here's some tonal correction!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! You know they say you write what you read, so maybe this chapter is a bit self-aware... I've been reading a lot of Thomas Foster lately.

The thing about having a name again when you haven’t had one for many years is that it makes you consider other things you haven’t had in a long time. Barnes, for example, can’t stop thinking about the other half of his name, about his Captain, about the things he still can’t recall, et cetera.

He wonders who his Captain really was. He wonders if he had a family. He wonders what his family might have been like. He wonders if anyone he knew before is still around. He wonders if he would recognize them if they were. He wonders if they would recognize him.

He is forever indebted to Lady Pytha, he knows. She has restored him to life from the dead and given him another chance. He will spend it spreading word of her gift, he thinks, but he doesn’t tell his goddess that. Somehow, he thinks that she would not like the idea of having a prophet - no, wait, maybe prophet isn’t the right word. That makes Pytha sound like some sort of Christ figure or something, which would be terrible for a number of reasons he might articulate later if he has cause. Ugh. Maybe a messenger, then? Town crier? Representative? Harbinger? No, wait, that sounds like he’s announcing something bad, like the apocalypse. Nevermind, he’ll figure out a title for himself later.

Regardless of what he calls himself, Barnes doesn’t think Pytha’d like him to go forth in her name. She’d object, saying he needs to live his own life now.

But that’s just the problem, really. He doesn’t remember how to live his own life anymore. He needs to have a goal, a purpose, and ‘escape HYDRA’ will only last until he does it, and then he’ll be drifting.

He doesn't want to be drifting. That sounds too much like dying again.

So, once Lady Pytha passes, he will be her - whatever he ends up calling himself - to the world. Which means - oh shoot, which means he needs to actually be listening while she’s rambling on about her gift if he wants to explain it to people later.

“ - And on every fifth birthday,” says Pytha, “the wings of a faekin will grow and obtain one more color, symbolic of the last five years of their life. The darker the color, the less morality the faekin has.”

Barnes nods, coming out of his reverie. “Anything else?” he asks.

“Always, but about the significance of color, or about the faekin?” she smirks playfully.

“Either. Both,” he shrugs.

“Well, the eyes of a witch can be in a larger variety of colors than those of humans, because their eye color is the same as the color of their magic, which can reflect their nature. Sometimes it can even change! Although… that is - will be? - rare,” she grins, “And as for the scales of merfolk or naga like myself, merfolk will tend to have cool-colored scales, while naga will tend to have warm-colored scales.”

“That seems reasonable, but are they exclusive? I wouldn’t want to approach an attractive someone with blue scales, ask them for a swim, then find out they were a Naga. For one thing, it seems rude.”

“Barnes!” Pytha laughs. “Why would you just go up to someone and ask them to go swimming with you?”

“The better question is: why wouldn’t you?”

Pytha rolls her eyes. “Simple - I’ll be dead.”

“But if you weren’t, you would ask someone swimming?”

“No! I would at least ask their name first. That’s just basic courting etiquette.”

“Courting etiquette? Pytha, no-one has called it ‘courting’ since before I was killed! But I suppose you do need to do that. And, it might be wise to do a background search on them…”

“Oh, of course. What if they’re HYDRA? That would be terrible!” Pytha completely ignores the jab at her vocabulary, aside from a quirk of her right eyebrow.

At that point, the odd duo gives in to the absurdity of their conversation and just double over laughing. Pytha’s laughter rings clear, but Barnes’s is muffled and raspy from the mask he still must wear.

He hates to see his new friend go, but at the same time, he can’t wait to be free.

All of a sudden, Pytha falls completely silent. A moment later, Barnes hears it too. The soft whirr of the elevator as it lowers a HYDRA down to their level.

Quick as can be, Barnes snaps to attention, playing dead. Pytha flings herself onto her rickety cot, pretending to sleep. The cot creaks loudly in a way that’s very audible to anyone on this level. It’s a good thing the HYDRA isn’t on this level yet.

He notes that she is quite horrid at pretending to sleep, and resolves to help her get better at it later. Not right now, obviously, they haven’t got the time. For now, they will have to hope the HYDRA is not observant enough to notice, or, barring that, simply doesn’t care. But really, the likelihood of the HYDRA being intelligent is low. If they were smart - well, he doesn’t want that, because then he and Pytha would be unable to talk.

The whirring of the elevator comes to a stop and the doors _ding_ open off to the right. The footfalls of the HYDRA ring out into the empty space, somehow a thunderous and foreboding sound.

Eventually, the HYDRA comes into view through the barred window set into the cell door. He has a hideous smile stretching across his face like it was cut there, and eyes cold with cruelty. He laughs when he sees them, as though he had to perform his best to be considered truly evil. It’s honestly almost painful to watch, but Barnes has felt worse pain, in both the physical and emotional senses. At least, he thinks so, anyways.

He can’t resist making a face at the goon, though. It’s fine, the mask does have _some_ uses, after all.

“Hungry, animals?” he howls as he pushes a bag of bagels through the bars. After the food falls to the floor, he turns on his heel and walks away amid peals of his own laughter. Seriously, did he take a class on evil or something? Who did he take it from? How much did he pay for it? If it was more than five dollars, he ought to ask for a refund.

Barnes and Pytha hold their positions until they hear the elevator doors close. Then she sits up, and he sags in some combination of relief and exhaustion.

“What an ass,” Pytha says as Barnes pulls off his goggles, allowing himself to see without the red tint HYDRA keeps him behind. “He sounds like he learned evil by attending a LOVEMUFFIN academy.”

“Lovemuffin?” he asks, confusion clear as he removes the ~~muzzle~~ mask they force him to wear. “What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s from a cartoon,” she waves her hand dismissively. “I used to watch cartoons whenever I was somewhere with a television or free computer usage, and I liked that one quite a bit.”

“What’s it called? What’s it about? Maybe I could watch it after I get out.”

“Oh, I think it was… let me think… oh dear, I can’t recall! I’m awfully sorry, Barnes,” Pytha looks at him mournfully. “But there was an evil scientist, and a secret agent platypus. They fought, and it was very charming.”

“It’s all right,” he replies, “I can’t exactly watch it here, can I? And you’ve still given me something to look into. Besides, a secret agent platypus? How could I not follow up on that?”

“Hm, well. I still am sorry, you know,” Pytha remarks. “Now, before we eat, do you want me to try and unlock more of your mind first? In case you remember something so distasteful you should want to vomit, it might be better to do it on an empty stomach.”

“I should hope I don’t remember anything that bad,” he says, “Because if I didn’t throw up at my own death, what could possibly be so terrible as that?” Pytha looks a bit sheepish, but Barnes trundles on. “But if you are offering, yes, I would like to remember more of my life sooner rather than later.”

“I can do that,” she smiles, still a bit abashed, and reaches out for him, her hand aglow. When her hand makes contact with his forehead -

He is walking in the city that is his and it is whitecoldsnowing and there is a girl with him younger than he is and she is _important_ to him and they are going _homehomehome_ they are going _**home**_ and she turns backs to him and says “Come on, Bucky!” and that’s _him_ he’s _**Bucky**_ it sounds so _right_ and he says back to her “Coming, Becca!” because she is Becca she is his _**sister**_ and they are going _**HOME.**_

Over as quickly as it begun, Bar- _Bucky_ finds himself back in the HYDRA cell with his goddess; his sister and his home are long gone now, but it doesn’t matter at the moment. He knows he will cry long and hard at their loss sometime later, but right now he is too giddy with happiness at learning what he was really called, what people called him, and what they will call him again when he leaves this place.

Bucky.

He is Bucky.

He is Bucky Barnes.

Now here is the difficult question he needs answered: _**Who is Bucky Barnes?**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all seriousness, Pytha was never meant to be a Christ figure. However, while I was reading _How to Read Literature Like a Professor_ I realized she hit way more marks than I wanted. You can read her that way if you like (I can't exactly stop you), but in my eyes, NO. NO, SHE IS NOT.


	4. Introducing Marvel-ous Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick Fury gets home after a long while at work, so he calls his girlfriend.
> 
> That's it, that's the entire chapter.

The pager is for emergencies only, so he always carries it everywhere, safely hidden inside his coat. If something were to happen, getting word to Carol is always of utmost importance.

He has had to contact her with the pager a few times before. He did so with New York, over the summer, but by the time she got here the crisis had been averted by the newly-formed Avengers. (He honestly hadn’t expected that. He’d just hoped they could stall until Carol got there. He’s glad they did, though, especially with the unplanned nuclear warhead.) She had been happy to see him, and happier still that there was now a group of people carrying on her legacy. She declined the chance to meet them, though, saying that her appearance out of nowhere and the knowledge that they had actually been the back-up plan might lower their self-esteem. Given their descriptions, she wasn’t certain any of them other than Black Widow and Hawkeye would be capable of handling such a reveal at this point, and she wasn’t going to meet with only part of the team. That would be rude. As a result, she had gone back out to continue helping the Skrolls without meeting any of the Avengers.

She had patted Goose on her long-lived little Flerkin head, and given Fury a quick kiss, before blasting back off into the sky.

She told him that she expects to hear all the latest gossip on the Avengers all the time. She wants to make sure they’re living up to her legacy, you see. And it gives her an excuse to talk to Fury for longer.

Regardless, the pager is not for contacting her willy-nilly, so he never contacts her for social or romantic reasons unless he is at home. At home, he still has a landline phone, which has only one job - calling Carol Danvers. It is rather good at its job, so Nick Fury talks to Carol every time he actually makes it home. 

That sounds like it ought to be often, but it really doesn’t happen that way. Being Director of SHIELD is a lot of work, most of which involves a lot of traveling. Sometimes he isn’t home for months at a time. But he’s helping to keep the world safe, so he doesn’t mind. Much.

He’s lucky Goose can take care of herself, though. He isn’t home often enough to feed her all the time, and he doesn’t trust anyone enough to give them his home address, but Goose can provide herself with sustenance.

He doesn’t know how or where Goose feeds herself, but he also finds that he doesn’t want to know, so it all works out.

Nevertheless, Fury is home today, and he takes a minute or two (or five, or an hour) to say hello to Goose, feed her, and tell her everything that’s happened recently. This flerkin might be the reason he only has one eye now, but that just means he shouldn’t treat her like she’s stupid. Goose is a peaceful little not-kitty, and he likes her.

After spending some time with Goose, and eating some dinner, Fury finally makes it over to the landline phone. It shows many signs of long usage (such as a fraying cord), and he thinks maybe he ought to ask Carol to come visit so she could repair or replace it (without limiting its function) before it gives out on its own and he won’t be able to call upon her casually at all. But at the same time, he knows she has better, more important things to do, same as he. In reality, even more important than his work, if he is honest with himself. 

Still, he picks up the device and gives Carol a ring. A minute passes, and then he can hear her, loud and clear: “Hey, Nick. What’s up?” 

“Not too much, Carol,” years seem to melt away from his face as he speaks. “Just wanted to talk to you.” 

“Well, I’m here. What did you want to talk about?” 

He laughs. “Whatever you want to talk about is fine, Carol. I just want to hear your voice.” 

“Well, in that case, you will not believe the homicidal plant life on this planet we found! We thought it might be habitable, but nope! At least not for the Skrolls. Homicidal plant life! It was crazy.”

“Was it?”

“Yep! We had to fight plants just to leave. There were so many! Luckily, they were still plants, and therefore couldn’t move from where they were growing, so we were all able to get away without even any serious injuries!”

“That sounds interesting.”

“You bet! God, and Talos was so mad about it too…”

“Talos? Mad? Perish the thought!”

“...You know, I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not. I’m going to blame it on your job. And the fact that I can’t see your face.”

“Carol, I’ve been in my line of work longer than you’ve known me.”

“The fact that I can’t see your face, then.”

“Hmph.”

“So, aside from a rather one-sided battle with some angry plants, things have been pretty quiet on this side of the universe. What about you? How are things back home on Earth? How are Maria and Monica?”

“I’ll have you know that Agent Rambeau continues to be one of my most talented, but her mother still stubbornly refuse to join up with SHIELD!”

“Most talented, huh? So what’s she up to right now then?”

“Hush Carol, it’s a secret.”

“Nick, I’m off planet, and this is the most secure line of communication on your planet. Just tell me.”

“Fine, fine. She’s working with Captain America.”

“Nick!”

“What? I told you what she was doing!”

“You did not! She could still be doing almost anything!”

“But I said -”

“Nick! Nick, you stop this right now!”

“If it makes you so angry, why are you laughing?”

“Shut up, shut up, I hate you!”

“No you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

They sit in companionable silence for a minute or two, and Nick contemplates starting a new conversation, but then Carol speaks up again.

“But in all seriousness, what is Monica doing?”

Nick sighs. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got enough time, you can tell it. Besides, I like your stories.”

“Well, it starts with another new terrorist group.”

“Oh, I hate those.”

“Agreed. This one is called the Mandarin, and the unpridicibility of his attacks is bad enough that the President is actually being corralled away for safekeeping.”

“Oh, so Monica’s helping to protect the President? You could've just said that, Nick.”

“Shut up.”

“Now, why would I go and do a thing like that?”

“Ugh.”

Carol laughs, loud and long and clear, and the conversation stops again. Not as long this time, but still long enough to call it a break. Again, it is Carol who breaks the silence.

“Now, since you brought up Captain America before, tell me, what are all of your little Avengers up to right now?”

“Oh, God, so many different things.”

“Tell me! You named them after me, Nick, I want to know!”

“Alright, alright!”

“So? Who are you going to start with?”

“Well, Thor continues to not be on Earth.”

“Nick!”

“What?”

“Someone other than _Thor._ ”

“Well, Romanov and Barton are still working for me, obviously.”

“Nick…”

“And Banner lives in Stark’s shiny new tower now.”

“Nick, you already told me those things! I want to hear about Rogers.”

“Rogers is still adjusting, I think, but he seems to be doing well enough.”

“That’s good. It’s hard being alone.”

“He acts like he stepped right out of the posters. I expected more reactions out of him, really, but he’s just so All-American, it’s almost spookier than a Level-One agent.”

“Nick! Don’t be mean to your agents. The little ones hardly know any better.”

“I’ll be mean to them if I want. They’re my agents.”

“Right… Nick, do you - shit.”

“Carol?”

“Gotta go, there are Kree. I love you, bye!”

“Love you too,” Fury replies, just as the line goes dead. He doesn’t worry about Carol’s ability to defeat the Kree, but he wonders what she was going to say to him before they appeared.

Well, whatever it was, it isn’t more important than the Kree. And that means it isn’t more important than SHIELD. He has an agency to run. It’s time to get back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I really hate editing. It's boring. But I also hate when I'm re-reading my work and spot typos and grammatical errors. Ugh. I don't know. If I didn't make myself edit this would have been out two weeks ago. But at the same time, I'll feel better if I don't have to edit on the spot while re-reading.
> 
> Thoughts, anyone?


	5. The Legend of Lady Pytha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pytha gives Bucky (and by extension, everyone else) a great big exposition dump. Yay!

“Bucky, my friend, you are hardly the first person to whom I have explained my plan. But… you will be the last, and that makes you very important indeed. Sit back, my dear, and relax, as I explain to you how I - and by extension, my plan - came to be.

Don’t argue with me, it’s only fair, after all you’ve been telling me about your life. Honestly.

My mother lived in a small village community millenia ago. She was married to a man, but really was in love with the man’s brother. The brother, also, was in love with her, so they carried on a secret affair for quite some time.

Until mother’s husband found out, anyway.

Angry, her husband convinced the local authorities to have his brother banished, and then took mother’s punishment into his own hands. Today, I do believe that such a punishment would be illegal, but… he forced my mother to have intercourse with a snake. And that’s how I was conceived.

Stop looking so horrified, Bucky! Good lord, you’d think I was describing something more along the level of what HYDRA did to you, given that look on your face!

...Well, yes, it is rather horrible, and if the incident was not the one that, you know, gave me life, I’d wish it had never happened, but I liked existing, and I’m excited to give magic to the world!

Can I move on with the story now? Yes? Thank you.

Anyway, nine months later, my mother gave birth to me - the first Naga. Of course, giving birth to a child who is half-snake is usually not considered good omens for any of the immediate family, so mother and I were driven out of the village.

Side note: the desert is hot and everything is terrible. I don’t like the desert. Anyway.

As I grew up, I came to realize that I possessed magical powers, and indeed wielded so much power that I was able to disguise myself not only as a wholly human woman, but as any human I wanted to be. Well, within reason, anyway. I never could figure out how to be a bearded lady.

A few years later, I realized I had stopped aging in my late twenties. I’ve… I’ve looked about twenty-eight for over two-thousand years now, and… well, immortality is lonely. Everyone else is just… gone so fast…

Right, right, more important things to talk about. Moving on!

So, Mother got old and died, and I lived through… a lot of history. Side note: your name is very familiar, Bucky, but with so many years of memories, my brain simply can’t hold them all, so unfortunately, I’m not sure where from. I’m sure I come off as forgetful and slightly ditzy, but it is what it is.

Eventually, after hearing many tales, mostly cautionary ones, about supernatural creatures like werewolves and fae, I had the idea for my gift. It will be perfect - it will give humanity magic and force them to get along because the divisions will be so even between the different types of beings!

Don’t give me that look, Bucky, I know that the original idea was hopelessly naive. People don’t like people different from them, take it from me, but I still hope that eventually, people of all types across all division lines can come together, especially if my gift helps such a dream become a reality.

Now, there have always been people who dissented with what they were told by their supposed betters, and these people were simultaneously the most and least likely people to entertain me. It was among these people that I found the first person who I told of my idea - her name was Isabella.

Isabella was impassioned, and rather taken with the ideal world that I described, that I envisioned, as the best possible outcome for my gift. She was so enthralled that she began to talk about it to her family, friends, and neighbors. But we were in Europe during their Dark Ages - mostly because that’s where Isabella lived, I had been on my way to Baghdad when I met her - and so she was executed by the church for hereticial speech.

I went on to Baghdad after that, in part because I had meant to in the first place, and in part because I felt that I could not stay in the same place that had killed Isabella for no real reason. If nothing else, she was my friend.

Just like you’re my friend now, Bucky!

Although, hopefully, you won’t be executed for hereticial speech. That’s not a thing that they do anymore, is it? I didn’t think so.

For centuries after, I continued along across the planet, learning many many things, and many many languages. I made friends, of course, and told them of my plan, and one by one they all died, usually from old age but not always. You will be the one to outlive me, dear Bucky, and for that I couldn’t be happier.

You are a survivor, Bucky, and you know more than my old friends when and when not to speak out. You are savvy of situation, you are cunning and kind. You have a big heart but know when you can’t help. You are something more, my friend, something that will allow you to go on in a world changed by my beautiful gift.

Someone wonderful. You will do great things, Bucky Barnes. Don’t you ever doubt that.

I have told you bits and pieces of what the world will look like after I am gone, but I think that now, while I am already telling a story, I shall give you the basics again, especially given how much you seem to daydream. Yes, I can tell when you’re daydreaming even when you’re wearing that hideous mask.

When I die, my body will release a pulse of magic that will wash over the planet, slowly but surely. When it comes into contact with a person, there are seven possibilities - they could remain human, or they could become of the six species of supernaturals.

Naga, like myself, are snakes from the waist down. We have eyes with slit pupils, and retractable fangs in our mouths. We are immune to most poisons, as we produce one within ourselves. Nagas created after my death will have magic aplenty to shift their scales and regain legs. Depending on how strong they are, magic-wise, they might even be able to hide the swirls of scales over their bodies that result, or even hide their pupils.

Witches will have magic running through them in a very pure form. They will be able to wield magic easily to achieve feats such as telekinesis, or more complex effects with more concentration. They mostly will look like humans still, but their eyes will glow and change color with their magic, and no spell will be able to disguise that.

Faekin, or fairies, will have a large moral compass attached to their back. Every fifth birthday, their wings will grow bigger and attain another color, symbolic of the last five years of their life. Their wings will additionally provide them with the ability to fly. They will also possess antennae, and while they will be able to do many of the same magic spells a witch can, telekinesis, so easy for witches, will be nigh-impossible for faekin, and instead the easiest magic for them to do will be to shrink.

Merfolk will have fish tails from the waist down, possess a set of gills that will take over respiratory duty when a merperson is below water, develop fins between fingers and on elbows and ears, and have pointier teeth than your standard human. Like naga, merfolk will be able to shift their scales and regain legs, and with enough power even hide their scales and fins. But they will be unable to hide their gills or pointy teeth, even the most powerful of them.

Vampires will have fangs, of course, with which to drink blood. They will need not drink often, if they only drink, but can still consume regular food for far shorter bursts of energy. They will possess large, bat-like wings, to give them the ability to fly, which will come in at the age of ten to twelve or so, and will be retractable, back under the shoulder-blades, although that will take a fair bit of magic. They will be more sensitive to sunlight than the average person, and therefore more likely to get sunburns and skin cancer, but the sun will not kill them instantly. They will _NOT_ be allergic to garlic, and a stake to the heart would kill anybody, really, so there’s that.

Lastly, werewolves, although they will transform compulsively during the full moon, will be able to transform at will any other time, and will not lose their minds when transformed. They will usually still possess wolf-like ears and a tail, even when humanoid, but with a little magical power they will be able to even retract those, at least for a while. They will have better base senses, especially of smell, than standard humans, and silver will not burn them, because that’s just stupid.

So there you have it, Bucky. There is my story, and there is my plan. Are you prepared for the new year, Bucky? I know I am. Yes - I do believe that I am ready to die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw Endgame on Saturday! That was mostly fun, but I have a lot of angry feelings about Steve's ending, which I refuse to acknowledge, because it makes no sense for Steve to do that, for Peggy, Bucky, or Sam to let him do that, for the narrative, and it mucks up the rules of time travel that you just established in this goddamn movie!
> 
> In other news, I ditched editing because it was slowing me down. By a lot, as you can tell by the expedient publishing of this chapter.
> 
> In other other news, I have enough head-canons and canon-refusal moments that I've decided to make a recap-guide-thing that will function as the base canon for all my stories. I mean, it already existed, but I've decided to write it up, publish it, and then shove it through google translate because doing that makes me laugh, and then publish that too. It will be mostly a recap of the MCU, but with a few me-styled changes. If you're interested, I don't know when that will be coming out, but the title will contain the year of publication, because I'm going to have to re-write it anyway as more movies come out, so I might as well label them efficiently.


	6. Power to the Peggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy and Steve talk about how Steve is not doing so great.

Every day is the exact same when you are confined to a senior care home. Day in, day out, it’s all the same, but she can hardly bring herself to mind. She’s grown so old, her body no longer able to power her mind, she isn’t sure she could handle more excitement on a regular basis. Things are exciting enough with Steve back.

With Steve back. She’d given up on ever saying that again years ago - no, it had been decades - before Howard died even.

Howard. He’d never given up looking for Steve, not really, even when Peggy had. She’d dismissed his perseverance as the insane ramblings of a man so hopelessly in love he couldn’t even realize the futility of his efforts. While she still believes that had been his motivation, she also sees proof in front of her regularly that his efforts were not as futile as she once believed.

Steve Rogers and Howard Stark, the tragic love story the history books never tell. They all want to act like she was the one in love with Steve. Ridiculous. Queers just flock together, and the three of them were quite protective of each-other.

She thinks the term now is “bisexual”, for her and Steve. Howard, she isn’t certain.

It must be difficult for Steve, being in the same space as Tony. Even more so because Tony has no idea.

No point dwelling on it, she supposes. Howard’s gone, and Steve’s so trapped by the people around him, and she’s so _weak_ , she can’t set him free, _she wants to set Steve free-_

“Aunt Peggy?” a voice cuts through Peggy’s increasingly frantic thoughts. A glance towards the door shows it to be Sharon, Angie’s granddaughter who had taken the Carter name for a few reasons - some personal, some political. She’s a sweet girl, really, but Peggy is unconvinced that she’s doing right by Steve. Her stories about living across the hall from him ring hollow - these are stories about Captain America, not about Steve.

Well, Peggy supposes she ought to respond. “Yes, Sharon?”

“I know you’re tired, and it’s short notice, but Steve Rogers should be visiting you today - he’s been given a mission, and leaves this afternoon. I don’t think he’ll leave without saying good-bye.”

Peggy feels like rolling her eyes, but she refrains for the moment. Sharon doesn’t need that. “Thank you, Sharon, for telling me,” she somehow manages to keep her frustration from coloring her voice. “Would you care to stay for a minute, spend some time with a lonely old woman?”

“Ah - no, Aunt Peggy, I can’t. I’m going to go visit Grandma,” Sharon gives Peggy a sad smile and backs out of the room. Pity. At least she pretended to have a reason, this time. Peggy knows that truly, Sharon just wants to avoid talking to Steve about her family, about her SHIELD connections.

She’s making a mistake. Secrets are no way to gain Steve’s trust. And if Steve thinks you’re keeping secrets… if Steve doesn’t trust you… if you make Steve mad…

Well, Colonel Phillips wasn’t all that pleased with Steve for quite a long while, mostly because Steve had an impressive tendency to put on that Captain America mask when speaking to Phillips, only with more “earnest” obliviousness than usual. Or at least, more than was usual at the time. Now, that seems to be the entirety of the Captain America persona.

Peggy’s left alone in her head a lot now. There’s not a lot there that isn’t older. They don’t really play the news in here, so she is effectively trapped in the recent past, with no knowledge of current events other than what her visitors denine to bring her. Steve is the best at telling her things, but that’s not saying a whole lot, because he doesn’t really understand current events.

Bah. She doesn’t have anything to do except wait for Steve. There’s a television, dark because the movies on there are never any good. She’s got a couple of novels, but not many because she has no bookshelves, and she’s read them already. She isn’t reading Great Expectations again, she just finished it yesterday! Maybe she can ask someone for a new book…

Oh, who is she kidding? Who would she ask? Steve? Steve already has enough to do, why give him anything else to worry about? He needs to not worry, he needs to be safe… He needs SHIELD to leave him alone.

“Peggy?”

Oh, he’s here. Well, at least she has something to do now.

“Steve!” She turns to face him, a bright grin forming on her face. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Steve nods as he moves to sit down in the little armchair beside the accent table. Peggy didn’t have a roommate (benefits of having once been in charge of an intelligence organization), but the room still wasn’t all that large. Also, Peggy wasn’t allowed to decorate directly, she had to delegate. And her children and grandchildren liked to see her make faces while still trying to pretend to be gracious. They’d made it a game, trying to see who broke her. She refused to give them the pleasure. Regardless, the room was small and ugly, but Steve still spent time here with her often.

“It can’t be Saturday already, can it?” she teases, watching Steve grin sheepishly.

“Sorry, Pegs. It’s Friday, but I won’t be able to make it tomorrow, so I came by today.”

“Whyever won’t you be able to make it tomorrow?” Peggy asks despite already knowing.

Steve flushes, averting his gaze, refusing to meet her eyes. “SHIELD asked me to do another mission. I know you said to tell them to fuck off, but I… I don’t know how to say no?”

“That’s not what you were going to say,” Peggy raises an eyebrow.

Steve slumps in the hideous armchair. “I don’t know who I am anymore, Pegs.”

“You’re Steve Rogers.”

“Yes, but Peggy, who is Steve Rogers? Really? I don’t…”

“If you weren’t Steve Rogers, how would you describe him? Tell me about Steve. In the third person, I know it’s odd, but try,” Peggy sighs. He gets worse every week. He’s the one who needs the most attention, but even in here, she knows he doesn’t get even half of what he needs.

“Steve Rogers was born on July 4th, 1918. He is… bisexual?” Steve pauses and shakes his head. “He is queer. He was once on his way to loving a man, but instead spent a long time frozen over. Now he works with the son of the man he was once with, and doesn’t know what to do. Steve Rogers once loved to draw, but now his artwork is full of bittersweet memories. He struggles to acclimate, not to the technology but to the people around him. There is only one person left from before, and she makes him do weird things like talk about himself in the third person,” he quirks a small smile at the end.

“Hmph. I wouldn’t have to do that if you’d make some new friends,” Peggy sniffs.

“Peggy, come on. I can’t talk to Sam about everything, and everyone else looks at me weird if I so much as sneeze!”

“That is nonsense. Force them to look at you like a normal person.”

“Peggy…”

“Don’t you ‘Peggy’ me, Steve Rogers! I’ll find this Sam’s number and tell him all about your moping myself if I have to!”

“Well, that’ll have to wait,” Steve looks sad again, damnit. What now? “I’m leaving this afternoon, after I have lunch with Sam.”

“You’re in love with this Sam fellow, aren’t you?”

“Peggy!”

“That’s a yes! Now I definitely need to speak to him…”

“Peggy, no… Please don’t…”

“You can’t tell me what to do, Rogers. Never could.”

Steve sighs, and stands. “I have to go now, Pegs. I’ll come see you as soon I get back, okay?”

“Oh no you don’t. You better go see your Sam first, you understand?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he smiles, and it’s a real smile. “Yes, Peggy,” he pretends to groan as he heads out the door.

Well, what do you know. It turns out smiling is contagious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I learned something yesterday. Did you know that sugary breakfast cereals actually have _less_ added sugar than most yogurts? No joke! And cereals usually have more vitamins and things in them. So Frosted Flakes are actually a better breakfast than yogurt, especially if you have them with milk. I feel validated.
> 
> Also, I got a new computer! Cute, sleek little thing. 
> 
> Also, Steve's ending in Endgame is bullshit on so many levels, not least of which that it's out of character for Steve to be so selfish. Also, it breaks the time travel mechanics that were literally just established and - Okay, long story short, I'm mad. If you really want a long rant about it, happy to oblige... some other time, okay?


End file.
